


Blood in the Water (And Everywhere Else, Too)

by MusicalLuna



Category: Psych
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Gen, Hurt Shawn Spencer, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Mild Language, Originally Posted on Psychfic, Shawn Whump, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-06
Updated: 2009-10-26
Packaged: 2019-03-13 22:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13580025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalLuna/pseuds/MusicalLuna
Summary: There's nothing more fun then drawing a little blood. 100 instances of bloodletting, ranging from tiny droplets to life-threatening pintage.





	1. Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Dragonnan and I were talking and decided the site could really use a bit more violence. Thus were born two very violent responses to the 100 themes challenge, with an appropriate list of prompts.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** As much as I love making these guys bleed, I am sadly not their owner.  
>  \--  
> Shawn can be really stupid sometimes. This is one of those times.
> 
>  **Characters:** Shawn, Gus  
>  **Genre:** Humor, Hurt/Comfort  
>  **Warnings:** Mild gore.

“Shawn, we shouldn't be in here,” Gus whispered fiercely, ducking as they crept through a darkened doorway.

The house around them was dark, old, and creaked with every step and even without such incentive. Spiderwebs decorated the darkest corners and every surface had a layer of dust that gave the whole place a hazy sort of look. All in all, it was intensely creepy.

And quiet. There were absolutely no sounds but for their soft footsteps and the creaking of the wooden floorboards and walls.

“Seriously, Shawn,” Gus said, a chill worming it's way up his neck and making the near-nonexistent hairs on his head stand up. “Let's get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

“Don't be a petrified oversized talking Great Dane, Gus,” Shawn said, stepping into the next room and peering around curiously. “Just because it's quiet and dark and gloomy and probably condemned...”

“Oh, god, we're going to get killed,” Gus mumbled, looking ill.

Shawn rolled his eyes and then perked up again as he spotted something glinting in the low light, near the fireplace. “Don't be ridiculous, Gus. We're not going to get killed. There's nothing here that could kill us.”

“Just you,” Gus muttered sullenly, following close behind him as he moved over to investigate.

The object turned out to be a very ornately decorated sword scabbard, encrusted in jewels and intricate carvings in a metal that glinted like gold beneath a layer of grime. Shawn reached out for it and Gus smacked his hand away.

“Shawn! Are you insane? That thing could be cursed!”

Shawn turned a severely skeptical look on his best friend. “Seriously, Gus? It could be _cursed?_ It's probably not even real, dude. Fake plastic jewels and some cheap metal. You've seriously got to stop watching _The Mummy._ ”

“It could happen, Shawn!” Gus protested, scowling.

Rolling his eyes, Shawn reached for the scabbard again. “Right, and the next big news story is going to be declaring the zombie apocalypse is at hand. Seriously. Lay off the late night JuJubees and _Supernatural_ marathons. You're losing it.”

Bringing his other hand up, he wrapped it around the sword's hilt and pulled it out of the scabbard. He grinned when it even made that cool metallic _sching!_ Noise. But the first pull hadn't even come close to drawing the sword completely out and Shawn continued pulling on it, marveling at how _huge_ the thing was.

It gleamed in the low light, the blade unblemished. Shawn could literally see his reflection in its silvery surface.  
  
“Damn,” Gus muttered.

“I can't believe we gave up these things for guns. They're so frigging badass!” Shawn said, and hoisted the blade. The muscles in his arms strained and bunched, having to work extremely hard to move the heavy chunk of metal.

Gus shied away from him, his hands coming up defensively. “Shawn! Stop waving that thing around! You could decapitate me!”

“Seriously, Gus. Where did all of this paranoia come from? I told you, it's not a real sword. It's not even sharp.”

“It looks pretty damn sharp to me,” Gus retorted, eyeing the blade.

“No way,” Shawn said, wrinkling his nose. “Not even close.” He set aside the scabbard and pulled the sword in toward his body, reaching to wrap his hand around the sword. “Look, I'll prove it.”

“Shawn! Don't! That thing will cut your hand off!” Gus protested.

But Shawn ignored him, marveling at the way the polished surface of the blade reflected back all of the lines in his palm in perfect detail. He wrapped his hand around it and turned to Gus, a triumphant smirk growing on his face.  
  
“See? Totally dull. You probably couldn't spread butter with it.”

However, Gus' gaze remained fixed on his hand, his face rapidly turning that weird gray-green shade it always turned when he saw blood. Shawn pursed his lips, annoyed that Gus was trying so hard to make his point and glanced back at his hand. Honestly, it wasn—

Oh.

Oh, crap.

Blood, vivid red, trickled down along the flawless surface of the sword's blade in small rivulets, oozing out from beneath his fingers and where his palm pressed against one edge.

He jerked his hand open and a sharp, hissed cry slipped from between his teeth as his hand suddenly seared with pain, finally seeming to realize what had happened. Blood rapidly pooled in his hand, pattering down in dark spots on the carpet and streaking his hand in red.

“Oh, god,” Gus whimpered and turned away, breathing fiercely in and out through his mouth.

“Gus!” Shawn exclaimed shrilly. “What are you doing?! Get back here!”

“I told you, Shawn!” he snapped and then started breathing again, this time with counting added for good measure.

Shawn's hand was now all but screaming with pain, stinging fiercely with every twitch of the muscles and washed in a thick layer of warm blood.

“Gus!” Shawn cried again, letting the sword hit the floor.

Gus took several more deep breaths and then turned, stalking back toward Shawn, glowering furiously. “I told you not to touch it, you idiot!”

He yanked his silk pocket square out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket and Shawn whimpered as he tied it around his palm.

“Close your hand around it,” he ordered.

“But—”

Lightning flashed—almost literally—in Gus' eyes and Shawn shut his mouth, wincing as he curled his hand around the cloth.

Gus took him by the shoulder. “Come on. We need to get to the hospital. You're absolutely unbelievable, you know that?”

Shawn pouted. “I couldn't help it, okay? Just call me Pandora.”

Gus snorted. “I'll call you something all right.”

 


	2. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dreams can hurt sometimes. And not just mentally.
> 
> This is a sequel-type thing to my fic _Look Out_ (https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567092).
> 
>  **Characters:** Lassiter, Shawn, Juliet  
>  **Genre:** Drama, Hurt/Comfort  
>  **Warnings:** Naughty Language (One F-word.)

The apartment was still dark and quiet when Lassiter woke.

He slapped the alarm off, grimacing into the dark bedroom. The sleep had been plenty sufficient, though not enough to wipe away the the emotional weariness. It didn't matter if he slept for two hours or eight; it was impossible to feel rested when forced to hide out in a safe house. Disappearing was difficult. It was even harder when one of the party had been through as much as Spencer had.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Lassiter pushed out of the bed, wincing as his bad knee resisted having his weight on it again. Grabbing his holster, he limped the few steps to the door, his walk evening out as he worked the stiffness out of the joint.

The faint blue flicker of the television was the first movement he saw as he padded down the hallway to the front room, slipping his holster onto his shoulders.

O'Hara was sitting at the end of the couch, rather than in the recliner next to it where he'd left her. She glanced back in time to see him arrive in the doorway.

She tipped her head. “Carlton.”

He nodded back, taking in the changes to the scene. Spencer's head lay in O'Hara's lap and she had her fingers in the hair along the side of his head, moving in lazy circulars. The psychic was pale, but no worse than he had been eight hours ago. He looked like a child, curled up on his side with one hand grasping loosely at O'Hara's pant-leg.

A surge of anger washed over Lassiter, not for the first time. Spencer might be a pain in the ass, but he was good at what he did and Lassiter would be damned if some two-bit thug thought he could threaten the psychic without retribution.

He had already let Spencer down once; it wouldn't happen again.

“He was really adverse to the idea of sleeping,” O'Hara said, her voice pitched low as she looked down at the sleeping man, “so I didn't try to put him in a bed.”

Lassiter nodded, moving forward to sit in the blue-gray recliner she had vacated. “You did good, O'Hara.”

They sat in silence for several long minutes, looking at the TV, but watching Shawn.

“He's terrified,” Juliet finally murmured and Lassiter's eyes immediately sought out something else when he saw the look on her face.

“He has good reason to be,” he muttered bitterly.

“I want to help him, but I don't know how,” Juliet whispered.

Lassiter shifted uncomfortably and then said in a low, gruff voice, “When this is all over, he'll bounce back, O'Hara. He's a resilient little bastard.”

Juliet let out a small, brittle sounding laugh, but she was smiling. Her fingers carded gently through the hair around Spencer's ear and Lassiter had to look away again.

She sighed. “I should go to bed.”

“Yes.”

She looked down at Spencer again, drew her fingers through his hair one last time, and then very carefully began maneuvering out from under him. It took her almost ten minutes of infinitesimal movements and careful rearranging to slip off of the couch and replace her lap with a pillow. Spencer shifted and mumbled incoherently, his eyelashes even fluttering once, but when she finished, he slept on.

The entire thing seemed excessive, but Lassiter knew as well as she did how desperately Spencer needed the rest and if he woke up again, it would be hell trying to coax him back down.

Juliet watched him for another second and then said, “If he does wake up, he's going to need another pain pill. It's been hours since he had the last one.”

Lassiter nodded. “I can handle it, O'Hara. Go.”

She sighed again, glanced at Spencer's face, and headed for the back of the apartment. A few minutes later he heard the faint sound of the shower.

Lassiter dug his fingers into the corner of his eye sockets and let out a long breath. He needed coffee.

Sparing a glance to make sure that Spencer was still sleeping soundly, he got to his feet and moved into the kitchen, pulling the coffee pot out and pouring the last grounds from their second bag of coffee into the filter. Mere minutes later he was breathing in the rich aroma of the brew.

He was watching the little red indicator light on the front of the machine impatiently when a noise from the living room caught his attention. He dropped the spoon on the counter and strode out into it, eyes first checking the doors and windows before finally dropping to the sofa.

It was Spencer.

He was twisting on the couch, sweat already soaked through the back and underarms of his t-shirt and beading on his forehead, which was riddled with creases. He was making a quiet noises of distress, his breathing harsh.

“Spencer,” Lassiter said sharply, reaching for his shoulder.

And that was when Shawn screamed.

Startled, Lassiter jerked forward, his fingers brushing against Shawn's shoulder. “Carlton?!” Juliet yelled.

Shawn launched himself off of the couch, clearly in “flight” mode, and slammed into the coffee table. “Jesus!” Lassiter exclaimed. Shawn cried out as his momentum hurled him over the table. There was a loud  _thud_  as he hit the floor, face-first.

“Shawn?!” Juliet yelled and her voice was much closer this time. Shawn's intimate encounter with the floor didn't seem to faze him, however, and he scrambled onto his hands and knees, fleeing into the farthest corner he could find.  
  
“Spencer!” Lassiter barked, “It's okay, it's just me and O'Hara!”

“Oh my god,” Juliet said when Shawn turned, pressing his back into the corner, arms up defensively. His eyes were wide, tears gathered in the corners as an automatic reaction to the blow and below that his nose was rapidly bruising, drenching his mouth and chin with blood. She quickly overrode her shock and held out her hands submissively as she crept a little closer, inching toward the ground to try and minimize her potential appearance as a threat. “Shawn,” she said calmly, “It's just me and Carlton. Everything is fine. You're safe.”

Shawn's eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them and then swept frenetically around the room several times, checking for himself.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he finally breathed, his voice shaking and brittle. His arms stayed where they were, though they started quivering violently.

“It's okay,” Juliet repeated soothingly. She moved a little closer now that Shawn seemed to have come back to himself, though she kept her hands out where he could see them. “You're going to hyperventilate, Shawn, take a deep breath.”

It took a moment, but he did as she asked. He shook like he'd been set down on top of a washing machine, the adrenaline slowly starting to fade from his system. The pallor of his face had gone from pale to almost transparent, reminding Lassiter, eerily enough, of a sheet of tissue paper. The numbing effect of the adrenaline was wearing off as well, pain re-etching its lines in his face.

“Come on, Shawn,” Juliet said softly. “We need to get you patched up.” She took his hand and his fingers immediately tightened around hers.

“I think I broke my nose,” he croaked.

Juliet bit her lip, trying and failing to stifle a smile. “Yeah, I think you might have.”

“You scared the shit out of me, Spencer,” Lassiter muttered, annoyed.

“ _I_  scared  _you_?” Shawn burst into slightly hysterical sounding laughter, punctuated by small noises of pain as Juliet helped him hobble over to the sofa.

“All right,” Juliet said. “Carlton, would you mind getting started while I...” She gestured with her head, her cheeks turning pink.

For a split-second Lassiter was confused and then he realized abruptly that her hair was wet and the only thing she was wearing was a very snugly wrapped towel.

His eyes widened and he started babbling. “Oh, yeah, sure, I can— Sure, it's just first aid, we'll be  _fine._ ”

Juliet nodded and brushed a hand across Shawn's shoulder. “Everything's fine,” she assured him. He flashed her a weak imitation of a smile in return.

The first aid kit had been slung onto the kitchen bar on their arrival and neither of them had bothered moving it. Lassiter retrieved it from there as O'Hara disappeared down the hallway and set it on the coffee table; it had been pushed askew, but otherwise remained unmarred from its battle with Spencer's shins. The man in question was hunched over on the couch with his fingers buried in his hair. Lassiter grabbed a towel from the kitchen and wet it with hot water before sitting down on the couch beside him. He deposited a pill from the bottle on the table into his palm.

“Take this; it's a painkiller.”

Shawn didn't have to be asked twice. He swallowed it down dry, grimacing at the unpleasant bitterness of it. Lassiter handed the wet towel over to him.

“Clean up your face,” he directed.

Shawn grimaced in displeasure, but began wiping gingerly at his mouth and the drying blood there.

“Does anything other than your face hurt?”

He got a wry look out of the corner of Shawn's eye in response. “Is 'everything' an option?”

Lassiter sighed. “Is there anything I might be able to  _fix_?”

Shawn shook his head, looking thoroughly unhappy. “No.”

They were quiet for a moment as Shawn continued cleaning his face. When it looked like he had taken care of the majority of it, Lassiter said, “All right, let me see.”

Reluctantly, Shawn pulled the cloth away from his swollen nose. He reached up to touch it with his thumb and Shawn immediately recoiled. “No, no no, Lassie, please— Don't touch it, don't touch it!”

Lassiter frowned, his lip curling in distaste at having to do this. “Spencer, we need to know if it's broken.”

“Let's just—pretend we know it is!” Shawn pled.

“If it  _is_  broken, we need to reset it.”

Shawn let out a low whine. How the hell did he even make noises like that? And did he have to do it? This was bad enough without him sounding like an abused puppy.

“Just let me check it. It will take two seconds.”

He looked anything but convinced, but, slowly, his hands came down, granting Lassiter access.

“Now just  _hold still_ ,” Lassiter ordered. He put his hands on either side of Shawn's face and then, very carefully, brushed his thumb against the bridge of Shawn's nose, checking for any obvious breaks.

“ _Enh_ oh  _god_ ,” Shawn whimpered, tears gathering instantly in the corners of his eyes. He breathed out a curse and another throaty whimper and Lassiter released him.

“It doesn't feel like it's broken,” he said, watching as Shawn struggled to swallow the pain and beat it back down to a tolerable level.

“Maybe not to you,” he panted, the words grit out between his teeth in a whine.

Lassiter was lifting the towel to go at the remaining blood on Shawn's face when Juliet returned. “Oh, thank God.” He stood, gesturing for her to take his spot. “I don't think it's broken, just seriously bruised.”

“That's good,” Juliet said.

Shawn huffed out a wet, slightly hysterical laugh.

Juliet's pleased expression immediately dissolved and she sat down, taking the cloth. “How are you feeling?” she asked softly.

God, Spencer had an extensive repertoire of pained whimpers.

“It hurts,” he said and Lassiter suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable. There was a distinctly choked quality to Spencer's voice that he knew he shouldn't be party to hearing. “Everything  _hurts._ ”

"Well, maybe it will help if you're distracted from the pain," she said, putting her hand to his jaw as she began dabbing at the remaining blood flecked on his skin.

He snorted, but immediately regretted it, a hand flying up to cover his nose as he stifled a high-pitched whimper. " _Ow_. Jules, don't make me laugh," he pled.

She frowned. "Why would that make you laugh?"

"Because if this were a movie distraction would equal kissing. And I'm pretty sure bumping noses right now would not be pleasant."

Juliet rolled her eyes, but she was smiling slightly.

"Damn. I guess we'll just have to think of something else then."

Lassiter groaned. “God, don't even start. I don't want to have to shoot you both, but I will.”

Shawn dissolved into weak laughter, going back and forth between grimacing and chuckling.

It wasn't what it should be, but it was better.


	3. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY MOR BLUD.
> 
> This one was difficult. :D  
>    
>  **Characters:** Shawn  
>  **Genre:** Drama, Hurt/Comfort  
>  **Warnings:** Blood. Although if you don't know that by now...

“Holy _shi—_ “

Shawn staggered back away from the towering black figure that had just come sliding out of the darkness from somewhere off to his left. His foot caught the curb behind him at an awkward angle and he lost his balance, letting out a sharp, gritted curse as he landed hard on his ass. His elbows screamed with pain as they hit the concrete sidewalk, shearing off a good centimeter of epidermis from his forearms.

“ _Uuh!_ ” he grunted through clenched teeth, his face contorted into a grimace. “Ow, jeez, dude! Do you mind?”

The “dude” in question stepped closer, dark black robes billowing out over the toes of Shawn's sneakers. Shawn looked up, up, and still further up before finally muttering, “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Within the folds draped around the figure's head, the pale white shape of a human skull looked down at him, surveying him without emotion. Thin, bony fingers wrapped around the shaft of a six foot tall scythe, the blade's own two and a half feet gleaming in the light cast from the street lights near the office.

Shawn pushed up into a sitting position, grimacing at the answering throb of pain from his backside. That was going to be one hell of a bruise. He looked back up at the figure. “You do realize it's like...seven days until Halloween, right?”

The figure said nothing.

Shawn sighed. He really hoped this guy didn't think he was buying this whole “Death” charade, because even if it was dark, he could see the dark gloves that the bony fingers were printed on, and knew instinctively that the facial features of the skull jutted out too far past the shoulders to be realistic.

He glanced at his elbows, grimacing at the blood trickling down the insides of his arms and, feeling a lot less charitable than he had about five seconds ago, said impatiently, “Look, my girlfriend is already going to be unhappy about the fact that I'm bleeding, let alone if I get home late.” He glanced up and down the ensemble. “Come back in seven days and I'll _pay_ you to scare the crap out of my partner.”

Still no reply.

Shawn's mouth twisted into a frown. “Or not,” he muttered. He got to his feet, wincing at the bolt of pain that the bruising on his tailbone sent jittering down his leg. “Okay then, Mr. Death. I'm gonna go now. You have a nice night.”

He glanced down to tug his keys out of his pocket and when he looked back up, the scythe had come down, top hitting his throat just under his chin and pushing back until Shawn had stumbled back to the wall. A rush of fear finally flooded in through Shawn's system. He swallowed and felt the blade pinch at his skin slightly, scraping over the stubble growing on his throat.

“Shawn Spencer,” 'Death' growled in a low gravelly voice, “you have been slated to die.”

Everything suddenly snapped into place. In just a few seconds, Shawn flashed through the crime scene photos of the Slash-'Em-Up murderer case he'd been helping out with down at the station, four bodies, all cut from belly to breastbone by a long, sharp blade, the dark figure witnesses had mentioned seeing, the floating skull at the second crime scene—

Shawn swallowed again, wincing slightly as the blade bit into his throat. “Uh—” He cleared his throat and then tried again, pointing down the street, “I've—uh—got other plans, dude.”

“Death is not concerned with your 'plans',” the figure murmured.

Before Shawn could react, 'Death' spun the scythe around, turning it so that the point rested just under Shawn's chin, the curve of the blade grazing the skin in the space between his clavicles. He barely stifled a whimper, pressing himself back against the wall of the office as hard as he could, trying to get even a fraction of an inch of space between his neck and the weapon.

But 'Death' was persistent.

The blade pressed closer and closer until the pressure was uncomfortable and still closer until it stung and then even closer until—

“ _NNAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!_ ”

Blood welled up, dribbling down his chest to where it soaked into the fabric of his shirt. He screamed again, whimpering as the scythe edged slowly downward. The entire world narrowed in on that single point of pain until there was nothing else left, so he didn't see Lassiter's car pull up, didn't see Juliet leap from the passenger's seat, didn't hear her scream his name.

The sound of a gunshot was enough to pry him back from the edge. He opened his eyes to see the black figure falling in a billow of dark robes, the scythe clattering to the sidewalk. A second later, Shawn followed, his knees reduced to little more than water.

“Shawn?!” Juliet shouted, and then she was there, hitting her knees beside him, her hands reaching for his head and shoulder, gently guiding his head back until he was gurgling strangled noises of agony. “Oh, _Shawn_ ,” she breathed. He just whimpered in response.

Her hands started moving again and he recognized the sound of Lassiter snarling orders into the radio in the background, sirens starting to fade in out of the night quiet. There was a sharp ripping sound and then his shirt was sliding down his arms.

Juliet cursed softly and he glanced down, realizing with a shock that his hands were crisscrossed with deep, vivid red cuts. The rational part of his brain recognized that they had to have come from grabbing the scythe, but he couldn't remember doing it, couldn't even remember the feeling of the blade slicing into his fingers. Juliet got past it much more quickly, stripping off his shirt efficiently and pressing it against the bloody center of his chest. He moaned, writhing away from the pressure.

“Hold still, Shawn,” Juliet said, her voice suddenly brittle. “I have to apply pressure or you're going to bleed out, okay? Just hold still. It's all going to be okay. The paramedics will be here soon.”

The last thing he remembered seeing were her wide blue eyes.


	4. Helpless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this ages ago. Ages meaning "shortly following the first season of the show". Now I have somewhere to post it! XD
> 
>  **Characters:** Shawn, Juliet  
>  **Genre:** Drama, Hurt/Comfort  
>  **Warnings:** Blood. Although if you don't know that by now...

Shawn skidded around a corner, stockinged feet sliding almost uncontrollably on the slick laminate flooring and he ducked, a shot showering chunks of the wall over him. “Jules, not the time for looking at the scenery!” he shouted and Juliet, who had turned back to make sure he was still behind her, took off again, wincing as several more shots hit the wall to their left.

She banged through a door at the end of the corridor and Shawn followed a second later, nearly wiping out as he completely lost traction on the floor (which had apparently been waxed very well recently). Juliet, hearing the startled sound he made, turned just in time to grab him by the shirt and steady him.

“Are you okay?” she breathed and he pushed her forward.

“No time for chatting!” he exclaimed and a shot nearly piercing the door behind them was enough to get her going again. Juliet couldn’t help looking around as they ran though, it was bizarre and fascinating, behind the scenes in an aquarium, especially in the dark like this, with the dim bluish glow from the tanks providing the only light.

“ _STOP!_ ” one of the thugs roared from behind them and Shawn, true to form, shouted back, “Yeah, thanks but NO.”

Juliet darted between two of the tanks and Shawn followed, sliding way too far to the right for a moment. Just as he was gaining his footing again, he let out a strangled cry, cursed viciously under his breath, and his face contorted, a pronounced limp suddenly hindering his gait. “Oh my gosh,” she whispered, and immediately rushed back, slinging his arm over her shoulder. “ _Shawn_ ,” she said obviously concerned.

He shook his head, teeth gritted hard, and said, “We have to go, keep going, just—pull me—”

She swallowed hard, but did as he asked, pulling him alongside her, trying to ignore his hisses of pain. They slipped through another door against the wall, just as the footsteps behind them got too loud for comfort and found themselves in a long corridor. Juliet forced open the first door, shutting it behind them. After a quick glance around, she realized that they were now in a storage room of some kind. “Stay here,” she whispered and put his arm around a shelf support nearby before moving into the room and praying she could find somewhere for them to hide.

“Jules,” he said, breathing labored, “the blood—”

“I looked,” she replied quickly, “You weren’t dripping yet. Here, come here, I think we can fit in here.”

She hurried back to his side and he stifled a pained yelp as she half pushed him across the room and up to a pile of old sea creature sculptures. He let out a bark of laughter as he saw the opening she’d found near the back of the pile. “A shark’s mouth? Really, Jules?”

She smirked, humorlessly, and said, “Sit.” So he did, hissing, and both their hearts leapt at the sound of yelling in the corridor outside. “I’m just going to push,” she said, tone vaguely apologetic.

“Do what you have to,” he replied, and she could hear the sound of his teeth gritting as he spoke.

She nodded, bit her lip, and then pressed her body weight into what she hoped was his good leg. The sounds he made in his throat made her flinch, but she pushed until he was all the way in and then, glancing up as the door rattled, quickly forced herself in beside him.

He made a stifled whimpering sound and she grimaced, pulling their legs in as far as she could, swallowing hard as she heard the soft clicking of the thug’s shoes.

It was more than a tight fit inside the shark’s mouth. Their bodies pressed up against one another, her head bent and cheek pressed to the top of his head. Her hips fit awkwardly with his, half on top of his waist and she could tell now which leg was injured (the left) because it still lay almost flat, whereas the other one was drawn up in front of hers, bent at the knee.

They stayed still, breathing far too loudly it seemed, as they listened to the click of the thug’s footsteps. Juliet could feel Shawn's heartbeat pounding beneath her elbow and it matched the rapid pace of her own.

Finally, after what felt like eons, the door opened and closed again and Juliet breathed a quiet sigh of relief. For a few long minutes, they stayed where they were—just in case. When she felt sure it would be okay to emerge, she shifted awkwardly and Shawn grunted as her hip pinched his waist. “Sorry,” she murmured and then twisted, getting onto her knees and shuffling backwards out of the small opening.

When peered back in at him a moment later, Shawn muttered with a heavy sigh, “Well this is going to _suck_.”


	5. Lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For dragonnan. :D
> 
>  **Characters:** Shawn  
>  **Genre:** Drama, Hurt/Comfort  
>  **Warnings:**

Shawn had been forgotten.

At least, he was pretty sure he'd been forgotten.

His kidnappers had been a little distracted even as they pulled him off of his bike.

~

“Oi, Darren! Keep an eye out!” a man shouted and Shawn rolled his head to the side, blinking to try and convince his eyes to stop going in and out of focus. They declined his offer, though they did give him a nice glimpse of a tall figure standing over him.

His head was throbbing in a sharp, painful rhythm from where one of these thugs had come up behind him and whacked him over the head.

“Hurry up, already! We shouldn't be doing this in the first place!” someone else snapped, anxiety crackling in his voice.

“Shut up, Chris! If we _don't_ take care of him, he's going to lead the police straight to us,” the figure looming overhead growled.

Shawn swallowed. That didn't sound good.

He started struggling to pull his leg out from under his toppled motorcycle in earnest, stifling whimpers in his shoulder as it vehemently protested these actions. Calling for help wouldn't have done any good—the parking lot was understandably deserted at three o'clock in the morning.

“No way!” the anxious one squawked, “You never said anything about killing anyone!”

The closest figure, which had bent down to get a grip on the motorcycle, twisted around and snapped, “Don't be an idiot! We're not going to _kill_ him. Didn't you hear anything I said? We're going to _get rid of him_.”

“What the hell's the difference?”

Turning around again, the man said, “The difference is if we get caught, we won't get charged for murder.”

Shawn stifled a moan as the motorcycle was pushed off of his leg. A pair of hands fisted in the material of his jacket and started dragging him along the asphalt. He hissed and managed to slur, “D'you _mind?_ That kinna hurts.”

But he was ignored, the conversation continuing above him. “Look,” Dragger Guy said, “we only need him out of the way for the next few days. After that it won't matter _what_ he knows. We're just gonna take him and keep him on the ranch until it's time to get out of here. Now will you shut up and help me already?”

~

That had been approximately twenty-four hours ago.

After a ride during which Shawn had been largely insensate from the shock, they had arrived at...somewhere and Shawn had been dragged out of the car and distributed rather carelessly into an old, rusting silo.

One of the men had flashed him a smile as he climbed back out. “See you later, psychic.”

Shawn had expected them to come back. Honestly, why bother kidnapping him if they didn't plan to do anything with him? If they wanted him out of the way they could have just thrown him in the ocean or tied him to a tree or something. Kidnapping seemed like a lot of extra work.

Not that common sense was something a lot of bad guys had, but still.

No one had come.

A single 24-ounce water bottle had been left in the silo with him, but otherwise the fifteen-foot-wide circle he now inhabited was empty.

It had been at least thirty hours since he'd eaten last and his stomach was making it's displeasure known. Food deprivation had never really gone over well with his body. Unfortunately, it hadn't occurred to him that the kidnappers might just _leave_ him here for a few days without bothering to check on him and the water bottle was nearly empty already. Instead of the stale dust scent that had originally perfumed the silo's interior, it now smelled like a urinal, despite Shawn's attempts to take a page from cat hygiene and (sort of) bury his waste.

Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately considering the chills that kept sliding up his spine), it was chilly in the silo—probably around fifty degrees, so the smell wasn't being baked into his hair and skin. _Un_ fortunately, fifty degrees was enough to have him shivering. And shivering definitely wasn't conducive to saving energy, which he had finally realized might be important. Nor was it particularly kind to his leg, which still hurt like a bitch after having his bike land on it.

All in all, it was one of the worst places he'd ever stayed.

Looking up at the pale light seeping in from the hatch at the top of the silo, Shawn rubbed his forehead with his knuckles. Not long ago his head had started aching and as the minutes crawled by, it was steadily growing worse. It felt like an ice pick slowly being driven in through his temple.

His stomach growled. A pineapple smoothie sounded fantastic right now. Chili cheese fries. Even thinking about the room temperature bottle of water next to his thigh had him salivating. He closed his eyes and then reopened them, focusing on the wall of the silo.

Eyes following the access ladder down to the last few rungs, nearest to the ground, which had been sawed or soldered off—probably to prevent him from escaping—Shawn estimated heights and distances he'd done so many times it wasn't even conscious any more. The sabotage hadn't been done cleanly; remnants of jagged metal remained, protruding. The closest intact rung was only two or three feet above his head. If he jumped...

Shawn sat for another few minutes, scrutinizing the rung and calculating his chances, dimly aware of the burning sensation in his stomach. Steak. His dad always had steak. Mmmm...

He shook his head. Right. Trying to escape. Action. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Time to man-up, Shawn. He pushed to his feet, grimacing at the answering wave of burning that lapped at his sternum and hissed at the steady throb that started in his leg.

He shook off thoughts of jerk chicken and looked up at the rung, gearing himself up to make the leap. “White men _can_ jump,” he informed the silo, and then did just that.

His hands slapped against the wall, clanging noisily against the rusted metal. Flakes of rust scraped away beneath his palms as he dropped back toward the silo floor, missing the rung by a good ten inches. His hand slammed down over one of the jutting remains of a lower rung and he let out a strangled yell. His feet hit the floor and his injured leg buckled, throwing him onto his backside. He immediately rolled onto his side, hissing and clutching his now bleeding hand to his chest torn between the agony in his hand and the agony in his leg. “ _Dammit!_ ”

When he had gritted out enough profanities through his teeth and beaten the corner of his forehead against the dirt floor enough times to tolerate the searing pain, Shawn eased onto his back, breathing through his nose, and took a second to look at what he'd done to his hand.

He grimaced.

That had been really _stupid._ Tetanus wasn't a concern, as Karen had ordered he and Gus to get physicals just over six months ago, which had included getting up to date on their (well, _his_ ) shots, but the gash in his hand was pretty nasty regardless—uneven edges and riddled with bits of rust and grime—and there were plenty of infections they didn't have vaccinations for.

Shawn jerked his head downward, annoyed with himself. This was not something he really needed to be dealing with when he was trying to escape captivity. There wasn't even any water he could clean the blood off with—without knowing when his captors might be back, he needed that last bit of water to last as long as possible.

“Awesome,” he said nastily to the silo and stared up at the faint light from the hatch, way overhead.

This couldn't possibly get worse.

~ * ~

But of course it could, and did.

Shawn slept (if it could be called that) restlessly in the dust on the second night, shivering so hard that he ached. The water bottle had run dry around noon (he did, for once, have his watch on) and by two o'clock real thirst had kicked in. Lying in the center of the silo floor curled up in a ball to try and fend off the cold had become his primary position, as moving around required more energy than he possessed. He didn't have to pee much anymore either, so it was easy to lie there and just think about water or what Lassiter, Gus, Juliet, his dad, Abby... might be eating.

At one point, on the third day, he thought he heard a car and scrambled to his feet, despite his body's protests, hoping, praying, that it was his kidnappers.

Stale bread— Warm water— Crackers— Gruel, for God's sake, _anything._

The silo immediately began spinning around him and he crashed back down to his knees, then crumpled to his side, panting as the world continued to spin around him. His head felt like it had been stuffed with feathers and was ready to blow away, but all he could think about were the myriad of foods the kidnappers could be bringing him, until the tiny amount of saliva generated by that line of thinking was torturing him with the barest hint of what he wanted to feel more than anything sliding down the back of his throat.

His hands and feet numbed as the night darkened outside.

But no one came.

~ * ~

Briefly during the night, Shawn felt warm again and he drifted in and out until morning, mumbling to himself and thinking about hot turkey legs and mashed potatoes with gravy. He was tired. _So_ tired, but sleep eluded him. His lips hurt where they had cracked, as dry as his dust-covered throat.

It was getting a little difficult to breathe because any hint of moisture stuck the tissues together like glue until he was coughing hard enough to feel like his throat was tearing into shreds.

Even then he was thinking about pineapples and mangoes and _watermelon_.

His stomach had stopped burning, though if he moved too much, it ached and the hollowness in his gut pressed outward like it was trying to eject his stomach through his throat so he could _really_ be empty. So he didn't move. It was too exhausting anyway and staying curled up helped make it feel like there was still something inside him and not just an endless gaping maw.

It grew dark again.

He dreamed someone had come.

The metal door of the silo creaked open, light peeking in through the gap and then sweeping around the interior. An unfamiliar voice murmured, “What the hell?”

Footsteps across the dusty floor, something painfully hot brushing his shoulder. Mmm, like chicken soup.

“Oh my god.”

The footsteps retreated in a hurry. Shawn thought about begging them to come back, but he was tired and what was the point anyway? The voice, smaller now, muffled, shouting, “ _Detectives!_ ”

Then the footsteps came back, followed by another pair and another pair and a more familiar sounding, “Oh, oh my god. Shawn?”

Then there was heat, burning heat on his shoulder, his throat, touching his face, his hands and he tried to protest, but he wasn't sure they heard. He wanted cold water, icy cold water and pizza...

“Shawn?”

Talking to him, someone.

A pale, hazy face with blue eyes. Blue like the sky.

Like Jell-O.

Like water.

The tiniest bit of moisture in his mouth and he licked his lips. Tasting rust like the walls. Walls in his mouth.

“...freezing, hypothermia...”

Pressure everywhere, pain. So many different forms and kinds of _pain_ all over.

“...no water, oh god...”

Heat, burning, like fire in his veins.

Fire-roasted chicken. Spinach and garlic and potatoes and eggs...

Maybe he was dying. Nobody had come and he was dying, where no-one would find him. Was any one even looking?

Not a pleasant dream.

“Shawn...answer...”

Juliet. He missed Juliet. Wanted to...

Chickened out. Left her alone standing there on the pier. Should have gone. Screwed everything up because...

“...een here...alone... Completely.”

Even Gus was gone this time.

Even Gus.

“Shawn, say...thing....”

Jerk chicken.

Doritos.

“...in pretty bad shape...but...keep an eye on him...pull through...”

Whispers. “...idiot, Shawn...don't...”

Two-minute noodles. Fried rice. Icy, icy cold water...

“...ome on, kid...ang on...”

His dad would feed him...kebabs and fried fish, grilled fish, roasted fish, lobster and butter, mmm, tempura and gyros stuffed with lamb and cold sauce.

Shawn's mouth was watering.

He swallowed and there was no sticking. No coughing. A little soreness, but no tearing. Corn on the cob...

He could _smell_ macaroni and cheese.

Shawn opened his eyes despite the little voice in his head telling him that there wasn't anything to see and froze for a moment in shock.

Instead of rusted metal walls, there was taupe and bland pastel blues and greens. And _people._ And not only were his dad and Gus sitting near the bed, but Jules, Lassie, and Abby, too. Each of them with a plate of food in their laps.

Juliet was the first to look at him, her eyes going comically wide and her hand coming up to cover her half-full mouth. “Shawn!” she exclaimed and sounded so delighted to see him, he felt a blush creep into his ears.

“Just in time for lunch,” Henry said, looking pleased. “Feeling more lucid this time around?”

And then Shawn remembered seeing worried faces, hearing voices. All like a dream.

“Hey, hon,” Abby said gently, reaching out to take his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry,” Shawn said, eying their plates as though calculating how they might become _his_ plates. Abby smiled at him and he smiled back, squeezing her hand.

Lassiter snorted in response to that.

Shawn's eyes drifted to Juliet.

She just gave him a small smile and said softly, “I'm glad you're okay, Shawn.”

Then the door to his room opened and a nurse entered carrying a tray, heaped with food.

Abby shuffled out of the way to allow her access and the nurse set the tray in front of Shawn, his mouth already watering at the sight of it. “Now,” she said swiping a hand in front of it to cut off a grabby hand. “You can eat while I give you the exam _if_ you promise to take it easy.”

Shawn nodded without looking at her. “Sure, sure.” Oh, glorious, delicious, _food._

“All right,” she said, moving her arm. “Go ahead.”

He dug in immediately, scooping a huge mouthful of macaroni and cheese onto a fork. His mouth erupted into a waterfall the second it hit his tongue and he let out a soft moan. Oh, god. He really was hungry if hospital mac and cheese tasted this good. It was like heaven, in his mouth.

When he opened his eyes, the entire group was watching him with smiles, apart from Lassiter who was rolling his eyes and sipping at a plastic coffee cup.

Shawn was mostly oblivious as the nurse did her exam, answering questions through mouthfuls of food and grimacing when she brought his attention to his wounded hand.

“How did you find me?” he asked, scooping mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Juliet's face took on a pained expression. “It was an accident.”

“They searched everywhere for you,” Abby told him gravely. “I don't think they slept for two days. But there was nothing to follow...”

“On the morning of the third day after you disappeared, four men tried to rob the Santa Barbara Trust,” Henry explained.

“Darren Brown,” Shawn murmured.

Varying degrees of surprise flittered across the group's faces.

“Yes,” Henry confirmed. “The detectives and a few other men were searching Brown's property just outside of town when they found you.”

“You were in pretty bad shape,” Abby said, “but that doesn't matter now. You're okay.”

He was better than okay.

This time, everyone had come.


	6. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER for dragonnan. Does anybody else want something?? LOL
> 
>  **Characters:** Shawn, Primary Cast  
>  **Genre:** Suspense, Hurt  
>  **Warnings:** Nasteh nasteh!

"Spencer," Lassiter groaned, "what the hell are we doing here?"

"Well, this is where the crime was perpetrated originally, Lassie. Wrapping everything up here with a pretty little bow only seems appropriate. The Circle of Life, what goes around comes around, back at—"

"Shawn," Juliet grit out. "He _means_ what are we doing here right now?"

"Oh. Well, why didn't he say so?" Shawn swept his arms out in an arc, drawing their gazes out to the candy factory around them, filled with massive metal machinery, conveyor belts and other machine-y looking things only Gus would be able to name. "I had a vision," he said, taking the time to meet each of their gazes (or at least attempt since both Gus and Lassiter were too busy looking annoyed), "I had a vision,” he repeated, “of a case-breaking clue."

"Let me guess, you know what it is, but not where," Lassiter said, as always, healthily skeptical.

"WRONG!" Shawn said loudly and then promptly leapt onto a nearby conveyor belt. Though it wound up being more like an awkward lunge, a near faceplant, and then a frantic scramble, but that was just semantics. He straightened up as though it had never happened ignoring his companions shouts of indignation.

"Shawn, you can't climb on that!" Juliet exclaimed, stepping forward with her hand raised as though to drag him bodily down.

"Don't worry, Jules, I'm a professional," Shawn replied breezily and started walking along the conveyor belt, talking as he walked. "The spirits have been doing a bit of poking around in their spare time, because they were unhappy with how slowly the investigation was proceeding."

"Shawn, really, you can't be up there," Juliet hissed as they followed him as he made his way toward the machinery. "It's unsanitary!"

"You could eat off of these shoes, Jules," Shawn said. “Tell her, Gus.”

Gus crossed his arms, looking even more peeved, if that were possible. “I'm not telling her anything, Shawn. She's right. That's totally unsanitary.”

Shawn sighed and opened his mouth to begin his reveal again, sanitary or not, when the belt beneath his feet gave a lurch, the machine just ahead making a loud shrill whirring sound as it came to life. He twisted around, trying not to fall on his butt and only succeeding in landing hard on his stomach, the breath rushing out of him in a sharp _oof_.

"What the hell?" Lassiter said.

"Shawn!" Gus said, his voice higher and more concerned. Shawn dropped his head to the belt, trying to do something to help get air back into his lungs, his diaphram spasming as it struggled to get back into a rhythm. Ow. Ow owowow.

"Shawn, this is excessive," Juliet said, her voice sharp. "Get down from there, now."

Shawn finally sucked in a breath, lungs expanding with a sharp spasm of pain. "Okay," he croaked. "I'm—"

Something rolled onto his fingers and he frowned, his head turning to see what was causing the uncomfortable pressure. He was startled to see that his hand was already knuckle deep beneath the roller of the machine. He shifted, pulling back against the fierce ache the roller was now inducing in the back of his hand, but that only seemed to make the machine's grip that much tighter. And it was really starting to _hurt_.

Something in his stomach fluttered.

"Shawn!" Gus barked, "What are you doing?"

"Seriously, Shawn, get down from there, now, before you get hurt!"

Shawn thought it was already a little late for that and hissed as the machine pressed one of the bones in his hand into an exceptionally uncomfortable position. He pushed up, getting his knees underneath him, but that only added more pressure to the already awkward angle of his shoulder.

He whimpered as pain shot through his hand with a jolt. "Guys, a little help here," he said, and his voice was starting to sound a little desperate. He yanked back on his hand and a whimper caught in his throat at the threads of lightning it sent crackling through his hand. "GUYS," he said and this time his voice cracked.

"Shawn?!" Gus shouted. "This isn't funny!"

"Nnngh—!" Breaths started coming sharper and faster as the bones in his wrist ground against one another and he snapped shrilly, "I'm perfectly aware that it doooAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

A strange snapping sensation in his wrist was accompanied by a lashing of pain that whited out his vision.

"SHAWN?!" Juliet and Gus cried, Lassiter's barked, "SPENCER?" in perfect synchronization, though they could have been yelling at him from outside by the way their voice sounded, muffled by the ringing in his ears.

His arm, his wrist, his shoulder, there was nothing but pain, pain, white-hot agonizing pain—

Someone grabbed his shoulder, but the machine just kept drawing his arm in, a tearing pain accompanying every centimeter it gained. His breaths were little more than short gasps now.

"Get it off, get it off, get it off, please, get it off, please, _please_ ," he begged, putting all his strength into trying to pull away from the machine. He didn't even care that it sounded like he was on the verge of bursting into tears.

"Oh my god," Juliet breathed somewhere near his ear. Her head turned away, blonde hairs falling over his shoulder. Shawn grabbed hold of her arm with his free hand, fingers clamping around it. "Carlton!" Juliet shouted, "Turn it off! Turn it off now!"

She let out a little gasp as his fingers dug into her arm and turned back, her eyes on his face. "He's going to turn it off, Shawn, just—" A wince flickered across her face, but Shawn was oblivious, the increasing pressure on his arm forcing the pain levels up toward excruciating. He bit his lip hard enough to start blood trickling down his chin, a moan forcing it's way up his

throat and out, despite his attempts to stifle it.

"Get it off, please," he whimpered and began pulling backwards using the weight of his body to counteract the pull of the machine. "Oh god, _get it off!_ "

"Shawn, Shawn, don't do that— Lassiter's going to get the machine, any second now—"

But it hurt, it hurt too much, it hurt _so bad_ and any second now wasn't soon enough. A half-moan half-wail slithered out from his chest and he jerked backwards, pulling a short, grunting cry from himself in response. He kept jamming backwards, the strain on his arm between the opposing forces providing a strange sense of relief from the unbearable crushing sensation.

"Shawn, don't!" Juliet cried, but he forced his body back again. The sharp jerk in his shoulder didn't stop there like it had the times before, however. Instead, his arm continued dragging forward, his body hurling backwards and something in his shoulder gave out.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

When he could finally register something other than _pain_ , there were tears in his eyelashes and strange, hitching sounds coming from his mouth, his body clenched into a tight little ball.

"WE GOT IT!" Gus was shouting and Juliet had a hand on his back, her face completely devoid of color.

"Shawn, oh, Shawn, shh, it's okay, they've got it off, shhh, it's going to be okay," she was whispering. "Don't move, just— don't move, okay? We're going to get you out."

His only reply was a choked sob.

"We're going to put it into reverse," Gus shouted, "Okay?"

"Just do it!" Juliet barked, her voice harsh.

"Here it goes!" Lassiter said grimly.

Shawn let out a strangled squeak as the machinery hummed back to life, his fingers clenching around Juliet's arm with renewed ferocity.

The roller moved back over Shawn's arm, but instead of the relief he was hoping for it only renewed the agony. He howled and moved to pull at his arm again, forgetting what he'd already done to it, but Juliet grabbed hold of him, one hand wrapped around the side of his neck and forced him to look at her. "Breathe, Shawn! Don't struggle, you'll just make it worse. You'll be out in just a minute, okay? Just hang on. Breathe."

"J—J-Jules, I-I-I-I _can't_ ," he panted, the words hitching in his chest. The salt in the tears trekking down his face burned, just adding injury to insult. A whimper vibrated in his throat and he stared at her, pleading. The grinding of the roller along his arm continued, unrelenting.

"Yes, you can, Shawn. You can do it, I know you can. Just a little bit longer," she said.

Shawn let out a high-pitched gasp as he felt the bone that had broken—it couldn't be anything else—shift, sending fire racing up to where his shoulder numbed out. The sound withered into a tiny whimper and Juliet's hand on his neck guided his forehead to her shoulder as she murmured in his ear, "Just a little further, Shawn. Breathe, okay? You need to breathe. You're going to be fine."

But breathing was so much more difficult than she made it sound. The agony in his arm was shorting out even the involuntary parts in his brain and no matter how hard he tried to concentrate, he couldn't seem to get his breaths to come as anything slower than a dog-like pant. " _Hurts_ ," he forced out between two such breaths. "Nnnghuuh huhh."

"I know, Shawn, I know," she said her voice dropping to a whisper. "I know it hurts, but you're so close." Her fingers stroked along the back of his skull and any other time he would have commented or considered taking advantage of their closeness, but right now the only thing he could think about was the throbbing mass of excruciating pain that had been his arm, five minutes ago.

And then Juliet was pulling away a little, shouting, "He's out, turn it off, god, _turn it off!_ "

The tears had somehow gotten back into Shawn's eyes. He took a shuddering breath and, while Juliet was still trading terse words with Gus and Lassiter, glanced at his arm. A split-second later he was bent over the side of the conveyor belt heaving the contents of his stomach onto the concrete floor.

~ * ~

Shawn made a retching noise just past Juliet's shoulder and she turned to see him purging himself onto the floor next to her, his face still wet with tears. She grimaced and gave the back of his neck a gentle squeeze. "It's okay, Shawn. It's going to be okay." He responded with a weak, strangled sound that might have been a laugh or a sob, she couldn't really be sure.

Gus and Lassiter finally approached from around the back of the machine and she put her hand out. "Gus, you probably don't want to get any closer," she told him. "It's pretty bad."

It looked like it hurt him to do so, but Gus took her advice and stayed back where he couldn't see Shawn's arm. Lassiter moved forward however, taking in the injuries with a quiet, "Jesus."

Shawn's hand was bright red and swelling rapidly, the rest of his arm a mottled combination of reds and purples—at least where the skin hadn't been completely pulled away along the back of his arm, where dark red blood was oozing onto the conveyor belt in grisly streams around his arm. There was a funny bump along the line of his forearm that Juliet knew had to be a break. She wouldn't be at all surprised if it wasn't the only one.

"Guster called the paramedics," Lassiter said, his voice subdued. "They should be here any minute."

Juliet nodded, but her attention was rapidly being consumed by the man still clutching her arm in a painfully tight grip, breathing over the side of the conveyor belt like he'd just run a marathon. "Shawn," she said gently. "You need to breathe more slowly. Come on—"

She touched his face; it was cold, bright spots of red streaking the length of his cheekbones.

"Get me— down," he said. His eyes were bright and dilated to the point where the black nearly consumed his usual hazel.

"Shawn, we should really wait for the paramedics to get here. I really don't think you should be standing up right now—"

"I WANT DOWN!" he shouted. He was trembling now, the tremors growing stronger the longer they lasted. He started clumsily moving around, trying to get his legs over the edge of the conveyor belt and Juliet pressed her hands against his shoulders.

"No, Shawn, that's not a—"

He started thrashing, wildly, a moan fighting it's way out of his throat as he jerked his injured arm and one of his legs pulled free, connecting sharply with Juliet's ribs. She gasped, buckling forward, but refusing to let go of him. "Shawn—" she gasped.

His hips slid off of the conveyor belt, dropping him to the floor in front of her.

"Spencer!" Lassiter snapped, reaching to catch him under the arm pit.

"NO!" Juliet yelled, but it was too late. Lassiter's hand caught under Shawn's freshly dislocated shoulder and he screamed. His uninjured arm came up in defense and Juliet staggered backwards, landing hard on her butt when his hand smashed into her cheek.

"Juliet!" Gus cried.

She sat frozen in shock, one hand coming up to brush the fiery bloom on her cheek and pulling it back to find a daub of blood on her fingers.

"Spencer!" Lassiter shouted again, sounding frustrated and bewildered. "Stop it! You're just going to hurt yourself!" He hissed as Shawn landed a blow to his shin.

"Just get back, Carlton! Get back and give him a second!" she said, grimacing as her cheek throbbed. That was going to bruise nicely.

Lassiter huffed as Shawn's fingers clawed at his suit jacket and released him, stepping back as swiftly as he could. "We're not trying to hurt you, goddamnit. Calm down, Spencer."

Shawn pressed back against the legs of the conveyor belt, his chest heaving, eyes wide and dilated. His skin was roughly the color of cold oatmeal, but for the bright spots on his cheeks. A vein in his forehead and another in his neck were pulsing so hard and so fast that they could be seen, slightly raised against his skin.

"Shawn," Gus said, his voice cautious, "it's okay. We're trying to help.

It was then that the paramedics finally arrived.

"Oh, thank God," Lassiter said, stepping back and sagging against one of the machines. "He's all yours."

Juliet didn't like relinquishing her share of caring for Shawn, but her arm and her cheek ached and at the very least, the paramedics had a better idea of what they were doing.

In an extremely well-choreographed move, the two medics approached Shawn, both crouched down so as to meet him at eye-level and then, while Shawn was warily inspecting the darker haired of the two, the other struck, administering a shot directly into Shawn's untouched bicep.

Within seconds he was much more complacent.

They enlisted Lassiter's help in getting Shawn onto the gurney and then in wheeling it away when the dark haired one caught sight of Juliet's face and broke away.

"Miss—"

"Detective," Juliet corrected automatically.

"Detective," he amended with a little nod of his head. "Are you all right?"

"Hm? Oh." She waved a hand. "I'll be fine. It was an accident."

"Still. I'd feel better if you'd let me check your pupils."

Juliet sighed, grimaced, and then nodded her assent. "Fine."

"Thank you." He stepped closer, lifting a penlight which he quickly flashed into both eyes, watching her reactions. "Name?"

"Juliet O'Hara. It's Tuesday the twenty-second of September two-thousand and nine, and," she sighed, "my friend just had his arm crushed in a candy machine."

The medic smiled. "Thanks for humoring me. Come on. I'm sure you're anxious to see him get to the hospital."

If only he knew.

~ * ~ 

"I'm never eating candy again."

Gus snorted. "Please, Shawn. That promise won't even last four hours."

"I'm serious!" Shawn said, eyes fixed on the bandaging swathed around his arm, which he was currently fiddling with.

Gus smacked his hand away. "Yeah, I'm sure you are. For you. I still say in four hours you're going to be up to your nose hairs in candy."

"I do not have _nose hair_ , Gus." His nose wrinkled with distaste.

"Uh, yes, you do, everyone does. And if you're in denial about having them there's no way you trim them."

"Why would I want to _trim them_? Especially since I don't _have_ them."

"Yes, you do."

"I think I would know if I had—"

The door to Shawn's hospital room swung open and Juliet beamed at them from the doorway, Lassiter lurking like a storm cloud over her shoulder.

"Hey, Shawn, how are you feeling?"

"Hey, Jules I'm doing just dandy how...are...oh my god. Jules! What happened?" he demanded, sitting up to try and get a better look at the massive bruise he could see spanning the length of her cheekbone, creeping in a crescent around her eye and seeping down into the soft part of her cheek to a small split in her upper lip.

Juliet flushed at his reaction and Gus grimaced. Lassiter merely muttered, " _You_ happened, Spencer. That's what."

Shawn's mouth dropped open in shock. "I _hit_ you?" he said, horrified.

"It's not as bad as it looks," she assured him, waving a hand dismissively. Shawn's eyes caught on the dark purple bruises strung along her forearm. His eyes widened even further, his face flushing.

"Those, too?" he guessed. "Jeez, Jules, I—"

"It's okay, Shawn, really," she told him. "You were in pain. Really. It's okay."

Shawn however, grabbed his pillow with one arm and flopped backward, tensing momentarily when his shoulder hit the bed and then pressing the pillow over his face. "Gus, I'm a woman-batterer," his muffled voice moaned through the pillow.

"You really should take advantage of this," Gus advised Juliet. "It's not everyday he's like this. His incredibly malleable when he actually feels guilty."

Juliet smiled but said, "I think I'll pass. Seriously, Shawn. I've gotten worse fighting with my brothers. I'm _fine_. It's no big deal."

Shawn pulled the pillow up so that he could be heard clearly. "It is never 'fine' to hit a girl, Jules. Even one who kicks as much ass as you do."

It took a lot of effort to smother the smile that inspired. "I'll tell you what, Shawn. You take me to dinner and we'll call it even."

Shawn's head came up. "Really?"

She snorted. "No, not really. Don't be ridiculous. We're co-workers."

"Damn it," he muttered. "That really _would_ have been a win-win situation."


	7. Young

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Migraine!fic yay!
> 
>  **Characters:** Shawn, Lassiter  
>  **Genre:** H/C  
>  **Warnings:** None

 Spencer has been acting weird for nearly an hour.

And not normal weird; _Spencer_ weird. So essentially he's been acting normal (ish) for almost the entire time he's been at the crime scene. But of course, by “normal” Lassiter means “quiet”.

The younger man (Lassiter refuses to think of him as “the psychic” on the grounds that he _isn't_ ) had arrived without his partner in tow and at first everything had been normal: needling, touching things that were not supposed to be touched, obscure pop culture references—the usual. But then Spencer had gotten absorbed in the goings-on at the scene. Lassiter had brushed him off gratefully and just prayed that the moron wouldn't do anything to compromise any evidence.

But then Spencer had grown quiet.

His voice had stopped carrying across the open space in the middle of the pet store where the crime scene was located. For twenty minutes, he thought Spencer had left without so much as a parting shot.

He'd never admit it, but he had been a little offended.

Then just a few minutes later, he had just about tripped over the fake psychic, who was crouched down an aisle where a terrarium had been shattered into a thousand gleaming shards. One hand was at the back of his head, rubbing purposefully at the juncture between his neck and skull.

“SPENCER!” he had barked. “What the _hell?_ ”

Shawn had looked up from the destroyed merchandise, squinted at him and then screwed his eyes shut, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Lassie?”

“Who the hell else would you be pissing off?” he'd demanded.

“You're right,” Spencer had agreed, still squinting. “Not enough sarcasm to be my dad.”

“Don't touch the evidence, Spencer,” he had growled. He expected a smart response, but Spencer just grunted. Lassiter had stalked past him and put it out of his mind.

Until now.

Spencer has just overbalanced stepping over a plastic dog toy lying in the aisle across from the body.

Lassiter expects him to right himself and carry on straight towards him with a twirl or other ridiculous thing to erase the moment of clumsiness from the forefront of any witnesses' minds, but instead he further off-balances himself and plummets forward.

His palms hit the concrete floor, skidding across it and a second later a little _whoof_ of expelled breath is not quite covered up by the _crack_ when his chin impacts. Lassiter winces involuntarily.

One of the uniforms gets there before he does, but he hears the stringy, croaked, “ _Ow_...” Spencer manages to whimper.

“Mr. Spencer, are you all right?” the uniformed officer asks, putting a hand between his shoulder blades.

“'M fine,” Shawn mutters breathlessly and then hisses through his teeth as he levers himself up. “ _Ow_ ,” he repeats.

“Are you ill or something?” Lassiter demands, planting his hands on his hips and watching with a critical eye as the idiot works to get his feet under him again. His chin is flushed bright red and already darkening toward purple, but the skin is unbroken. The palms of his hands are a different story. They've been scraped raw and blood is already beading up across them. Finally, Spencer straightens—and nearly goes down again.

Lassiter lunges forward, positioning himself between Spencer and another hard impact with the unforgiving gray floor. The man in question wraps his hands around Lassiter's arms, grip almost painfully tight. He growls in the back of his throat, clearly frustrated.

“All right, Spencer, what's going on?” Lassiter asks, peevish because something is clearly wrong and the fake is stupid enough to continue trying to ignore it.

“I'm fine,” he insists. “I just...tripped.” Another attempt to stand on his own results in a dramatic sway and his fingers clenching painfully into Lassiter's biceps.

Lassiter snorts, righting him again. “Like hell you did.” Spencer's face is pinched and instead of trying to stand again, one of his hands releases Lassiter's arm, moving to knead at the base of his skull. He watches the younger man for another minute and then guesses, “Headache?”

Reluctantly, Spencer nods. “But 'm fine,” he insists. Lassiter's mouth pulls tight. He's definitely slurring. “I's just a headache.”

“Oh, sure. You can't stand up on your own and if the squinting is any indication, your vision is blurred or doubled or maybe you're seeing weird shapes, and you're slurring like a drunk, but you're _just fine_.” The sarcasm in his voice is thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

“Well, if you're gonna be like that Lassie...” For a second Lassiter thinks he's going to actually tell him exactly what the hell's the matter with him, but instead his other hand lets go, moving to cup the back of his neck, too. He doesn't seem to be aware of the fact that he's leaning—hard—against Lassiter's shoulder, eyes screwing shut and his arms straining as he puts pressure on the back of his head.

Lassiter suspects he knows what's wrong. “Getting worse?”

Spencer lets out a breath he's been holding and nods once, no nonsense. “Yeah,” he breathes out.

“And _are_ you seeing things?”

Spencer grimaces, his entire face pulling in toward the bridge of his nose, but he gives another single nod. “Yeah,” he says again. “Zig zags. Weird, freaky— _nnhff_.” He cuts off with a little noise and the hands at the back of his neck curl into claws, dragging at the hair at the base of his skull and raising red lines along the skin of his neck.

“Hey,” Lassiter says sharply, batting his hands away. “Don't do that.”

“Lassie,” Shawn grits through his teeth, trying to get his hands back where he can try to fight the pressure, “it _hurts,_ okay?”

Lassiter acknowledges that with a nod. “It's a migraine, I can imagine it does.”

“Well, that would explain why it feels like my skull is going to explode.” Lassiter grabs his wrist in one hand when he tries to wrap it around the hair at the base of his skull again and pulls it out of reach.

“Stop being an idiot. More pain is not going to help,” he says severely and then, to try and distract him from more self-mutilation, “My sister gets migraines so I did a little research a while back. 'Visual disturbances' are one of the symptoms.”

“I'd say these are little more than 'disturbances',” Shawn mutters and then screws up his face again, baring his teeth. “ _Nngghh_.”

“Come on, you need to sit down before you fall down,” Lassiter says, and starts pulling him along toward the front of the store, his grip making the statement non-optional.

They're halfway through one of the check-out stalls when Shawn's hand suddenly implements a death-grip on Lassiter's forearm.

He glances down in time to see the color drain out of the fake psychic's face like water swirling down a drain. “Gonna...” Spencer whispers but Lassiter already knows and he grabs him under the arms a split second before the younger man's eyes roll back in his head, his entire body going limp. They nearly wind up on the floor anyway, the shock of Spencer's dead weight in his arms worse than he had anticipated, but he grunts and heaves backward and they wobble, but stay upright.

“Detective?!”

“Help me, you idiot!” Lassiter barks at the uniform gawking, tentatively just out of range. That's enough to get him moving and he steps forward, hoisting Spencer's legs up under one arm.

“Where are we taking him, sir?” he puffs out.

“Car,” Lassiter says and jerks his head toward the parking lot.

They maneuver through the automatic doors of the shop, moving as quickly as they dare. When they finally reach Lassiter's brand-new shiny dark blue car, he digs into his pocket with one hand, struggling to hold Spencer up with the other. Finally he manages to switch open the locks.

His assisting officer pulls open the back door and feeds Spencer's feet in through the opening.

“Watch the pleather!” Lassiter snaps and then a second later he's hoisting Spencer's upper body into the car.

The fake psychic's knees are bent akimbo, dribbling off the side of the seat bonelessly and his shirt has been shoved up nearly past his ribs—enough so that Lassiter can see the way Spencer's stomach expands and contracts as he breathes. Being able to see the physical movement of the action reassures him that the migraine isn't something more severe masquerading as a painful, if not deadly, headache.

It takes a few more gentle shoves to get Shawn far enough in to lay his head down on the seat, but finally it's done and Lassiter leans against the door frame. As he works to catch his breath, he inspects Shawn's pale face, standing out starkly against the dark interior of his car.

He closes his eyes briefly and mutters, “Idiot.”

“Sir—”

Lassiter turns, his annoyance ratcheting up about fifteen notches when he sees the officer still standing there like an idiot. “Do I look like I need your help?” he demands. Before the flustered officer can respond, he barks, “Get inside and make sure CSU is doing their job!”

The officer straightens and nods crisply. “Yessir.”

He turns on his heel and hurries back toward the pet store and Lassiter leans against the door frame again. He glances down and—

Spencer is coming to. The pleather creaks quietly beneath him as he shifts, dark eyelashes fluttering open. His brows draw in toward the bridge of his nose. Lassiter waits patiently as they open, immediately squinting defensively against the light. “Lassie? he murmurs muzzily. “Tell me I didn'...”

“Yep. Fainted. Dead away.” He smirks.

Shawn grimaces and reaches for the back of his neck. “Thought so...”

Crouching, Lassiter digs around underneath the seat for the first aid kit he keeps in the car for emergencies.

“Did you carry me all the way out here on your lonesome, Lassie?” Shawn asks, finally seeming to notice where he is. The words are appropriately teasing, but the tone of voice isn't quite cutting it. He's struggling to maintain nonchalance in the face of the agony throbbing at the base of his skull.

Lassiter rolls his eyes anyway and says, “Don't be an idiot.” The painkillers are found in little packets buried beneath all of the other junk in the first aid kit and he pulls one out. A twist of his wrist and the packet is torn open. He presses it into Spencer's hand. “Take these. And drink this.” A bottle of water (forced on him by O'Hara) is now foisted upon the man sprawled on his back seat.

“My hero,” Shawn deadpans, but he swallows the pills all at once, shifting up onto one elbow in order to take a sip out of the water bottle. “Am I going to get Lassie cooties now?”

“You can only hope that something of me might rub off on you, Spencer,” he says, then, after a brief pause: “How's the vision?”

“Headaches mess with the psychic receptors, so it's a little fuzzy, but—”

“I meant your _eyes_ ,” he growls, clarifying even though he knows as well as Spencer does that none was needed.

A ghost of a smile flits across the younger man's face and he says, “Better. The zig zags aren't showing up as much.” His fingers are still kneading at the back of his head though, so it's obvious the pain hasn't dissolved yet. “Don't you have a crime scene to get back to?”

Lassiter snorts. “Like I'm going to leave you here, alone with my car. Keep dreaming.”

“I was only thinking of you,” Spencer says. His arm is now slung over his eyes.

“Sure you were.” Pulling open the front door, Lassiter slides into the driver's seat to wait and catches the fake psychic peeking out at him from beneath his arm in the rear view mirror. There's a furrow between his eyes that's not normally there.

Lassiter reaches over to the glove box and pulls it open, drawing out a small towel he usually uses for dusting the interior. He tosses it back over the seat at Spencer. “Wet that and put it over your eyes,” he orders.

Spencer quirks an eyebrow at him, but the comment Lassiter can see brewing behind his eyes vanishes when the muscles around them tense—most likely in response to a throb of pain from the back of his skull. Dexterous fingers fold the cloth into a square and then the bottle is pressed against it and overturned. Spencer repeats the process until the cloth is damp all the way through and then unfolds it into a long rectangle.

He glances into the rear view mirror one more time, the cloth hovering above his eyes. “This isn't a trick, is it? Are you going to drive me down to the docks and dump me in the ocean?”

“Don't be ridiculous. If I were going to do something to you, it would be a hell of a lot more creative than this,” Lassiter says.

Spencer processes this, nods, and then settles the cloth over his eyes with a soft sigh.

Lassiter turns around, reaching into his jacket for his phone as it vibrates, letting him know he's received a text. It's from O'Hara, ETA, five minutes.

As soon as she gets here, Spencer is transferring vehicles and they're getting back to work.


End file.
